


Am I Crazy?

by ColdeLinke, Wealling



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (but only for like a minute), Alternate Universe, Angst, Creepy!Lock, Fanart, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:43:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdeLinke/pseuds/ColdeLinke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wealling/pseuds/Wealling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Agra Planet, a black and white world with only one living thing, Sherlock Holmes. The man travelled day and night looking for someone else, in vain. Until, one day, John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Agra Planet

**Author's Note:**

> Little reminder that I am not a native speaker so apologies for any mistake, I do not have a beta-reader. 
> 
> Wealling had the idea for this AU, I wrote it and she drew the illustrations.

 

Chapter 1 - The Agra Planet

 

 

 

In the valley of the Agra Planet, a young man, wearing a long coat with pockets that were filled with numerous things, was walking with a blank expression on his face. He held an open umbrella over his head even though no drop fell from the sky. The landscape would be more white than black, if not for the man’s dark clothes which could rivaled the darkest color of the sky in a time of storms. The planet was unique in its own way, never a color to fill the landscape, the only living thing being the young man of the peculiar name of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, with his dark hair, his blank eyes and his frightening smile, fitted perfectly in the scenery. The forest had no real shape, nor even the hills. There were no building since it was not needed. When he slept, which did not happen often, Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around his frail figure in an attempt at getting warm. The air was cold, the wind worming its way through the holes of his clothes. He walked with a purpose: finding other people. He ignored everything else, walked and walked. He had already done the full turn of the planet, but still, he persisted. Hope was a feeling that wandered through his heart every single minute of every day. He tried to hold onto it as tightly as he could, but the loneliness and the despair clawed at his lungs, making it impossible to breathe at times.

‘Must you really be so predictable, Sherlock,’ a voice said, making Sherlock sigh.

‘And why do you say that, Mycroft?’

‘Trying to find other people, when they are all so boring, you’re starting to become one of them.’

Sherlock gritted his teeth and refrained from answering with a cutting retort. He gripped the handle of his umbrella firmly, hoping it would prevent him from throwing it away. But it kept talking, ‘Really Sherlock, you know how they all are, well, were,’ reminding him of what had once been, and he cast it away in anger. The umbrella fell on the ground with a loud ‘pouf’ and stopped talking. Sherlock stared at it, his crooked and pointy teeth biting at his lips, and started to walk away from it. He’d only made five steps when he doubled back and picked it up again. He didn’t apologize, but held it over his head as he always did, and the umbrella stayed silent and still.

The night had fallen and he looked up at the black sky with empty eyes. He wanted to keep going, wanted to believe that tonight was the night he was going to see a fire and people sitting around it, wanted to hear people talk and laugh and cry. He didn’t remember what a laugh sounded like, didn’t know whether he will hate it or not. He just wanted the possibility to decide. But even he didn’t have that choice. He sat where he was, in the middle of nowhere, with nothing and no one in sight, and closed his eyes. He didn’t have the intention to sleep but he had to rest his eyes after having exhausted them looking for a soul. He took a teapot and a cup out of his left pocket and the tea leaves of his right, along with the bottle of water which he boiled with a growing fire.

‘You shouldn’t tire yourself so much dear, it’s not good for your health,’ the teapot said with a disapproving voice and the corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched as if refraining a smile.

‘I’m fine Mrs H.’

‘You do look a bit under the weather,’ added a small voice shyly.

He rolled his eyes but said, ‘I’ll be better after my cup of tea, Molly.’

Molly didn’t say anything else but Mrs H. carried on a speech.

‘It’s not a good idea walking around so much in the cold without resting, without warming up. You’ll do well to find a warmer coat,’ she ignored his protest that his coat was fine, thank you very much, ‘or you’re going to fall ill very quickly and then who’s going to serve you tea?’

He drank from his cup the hot tea and sighed in contentment. It was not enough, but it was still something. He ignored Mrs H. and lied down on the grass, looking up at the stars, wishing they were people falling down the sky to be his companions. He fell asleep without wanting to, thinking about someone lying next to him, their breath hot against his cheeks.

When he woke up, it was slowly and painfully, the crumbs of the dream floating in his mind without him being able to remember what it was about. He opened his eyes with a gasp and sat up, with a shortness of breath, and scrubbed at his face, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It took him a moment to become aware of his surroundings, and when he did, he sighed at the deserted sight that laid before his eyes. He glanced at the objects sitting next to him, almost hidden by the lack of light. He knew he had to wait until the sun rose to resume his research, but he wished, not for the first time that he didn’t have to do that in the first place.

He stayed that way for hours, staring right up ahead, at the never ending hills and meadows. Mycroft, Mrs H. and Molly knew not to bother him when he was in those moods. They kept silent but stayed close, letting him know he had company. As soon as the sun had its place in the sky and that darkness had vanished to let way to a certain glow, Sherlock rose up and started walking, after having put the objects back to their places. He found the path where it was the day before when he had left it and continued his walk, his eyes never missing a single detail of the poor scenery.

It was another voice that broke him out of his reverie. The deep voice, almost painful, of the apple that sat at the deep end of the pocket beneath the crook of his right shoulder, called out his name in an impatient manner.

‘ _Sherlock_. You do realize that there are far more interesting things to do, right? For once, I agree with your brother,’ it said but Sherlock ignored it.

‘Leave him alone! Let him do as he pleases,’ another voice said, this time erupting from the pocket of his shirt.

He clenched his fists as the first one chuckled and replied, ‘Ooooh, you have a watchdog I see.’

He took out the apple from one pocket and the magnifying glass from the other and stopped walking. He put one in front of the other and scowled at them both, even if they couldn’t see.

‘That’s enough. Lestrade, I _don’t_ need someone to answer for me, and Moriarty, I definitely don’t want to hear your remarks. Now shut up and let me think,’ he cried out in frustration.

‘Of course they don’t listen,’ he thought with a sigh as Lestrade protested that he was just trying to be nice and Moriarty mocked him yet again. ‘I am not going to tell you twice,’ he said aloud and while Lestrade kept mum, Moriarty laughed, ‘You’re not very scary, loner.’

Sherlock sucked in a breath and dropped the apple to the floor. The voice was muffled by the grass, the O of the writing on the apple trapped against the ground. He hesitated before picking it up, clenched his jaw and closed his eyes as he put his hand over the ‘I O U’ in an attempt at shutting it up. It didn’t work. As he resumed his stroll, the voice mumbled and shouted and hollered, trying to get his attention. He did his best to ignore it and everything it said. But the truth was, it was exploring his darkest secrets and thoughts, muttering them away for anyone to hear, even though there was no one in sight, no one near to eavesdrop.

He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t get Moriarty to just _shut up_. Hated that he didn’t have the nerve to throw the damn apple away, never to see it again. Hated that he thought he might need it, soon, sometime. He felt weirdly reassured at the idea that he had a poison near him at all times. If the pain ever became too much, he knew what he was going to do. Having to listen to Moriarty’s hateful voice was necessary.

It started a while ago. The voices. Since the very beginning, ever since he first woke up on this planet, he had picked up objects he had encountered, and they were fewer and fewer as time went on. They didn’t speak at first. He hadn’t felt so alone then. Never knew he really was. He passed by corpses of people who must have been like him, he examined them, deduced their deaths, and moved on. He had walked all around the planet four times, had started doing experiments on the bodies, when he realized that the thing in his throat was vocal cords and that he could use them to speak. Speak. It was such a foreign concept. He tried it slowly, a word, two. They came naturally to him.

And so it started. He began talking to himself, first in his mind, then aloud, through the inanimate objects. He invented their stories, imagined their personalities. He first had a brother, annoying and judgmental, he chose the umbrella to represent him and held it over his head as a way of saying that he was also a protector. Then, the teapot became an old lady whose only wish was to watch over him. Molly was the young lady enamored with him. Lestrade, a friend, helping him solve the murders of the dead people he came across. And finally, his enemy, almost as smart as him, Moriarty. In the figure of the poisoned apple, because in his mind, Moriarty was a dangerous man.

He could have stopped the voices, of course. Stopped Moriarty’s incessant chatter when he became so annoyed with it. He could have stopped pretending to be irritated whenever they chastised him. But he didn’t want to. So he never did. They felt real after a while. He started to forget that they were creations from his imagination. He couldn’t stop them. He had to reply to them. He saw the ‘O’ of the apple as a mouth, moving with the words. He heard the hesitation in the cup’s voice. He watched as the umbrella closed itself when it was angry at Sherlock.

He lost lucidness during those times. But was clear-headed during others. And during those, he wondered.

_‘Am I crazy?’_


	2. Meeting for the first time

A few days passed before the meaning of what he had thought truly sinked in. He stared at the clouded sky as the panic settled in. What was madness? Was it the result of loneliness? Was it something that had always existed in his mind, in his body, but that had never surfaced before? He wished he could turn his brain off but the thoughts came hurling in and never left him alone. His knees trembled and he sank to the floor, his hands on his ears, letting go of the umbrella, his eyes closed, the ever-working mechanics of his brain hurting him so hard he could hardly breathe. It was ironic that he was born with a crooked smile on his face when he had never truly been happy.

He took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. The water at the corner of his eyes fell on his cheeks without his consent, and he wiped them away forcefully, ashamed of himself. He stayed sitting on the path with his wide blank eyes staring at nothing, willing his thoughts to come back to a normal pace. After a while, they did. It didn’t happen very often, but when it did, he wished he had something to make it all go away, to make it alright, to make it slow down. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he thought of drugs, although he didn’t really know what it meant. Had he ever used them, whatever they were, and did they work? He assumed it was all before he had woken up on this planet, alone and lost. He hated that he didn’t remember what had happened before that, hated that he didn’t know whether he had been someone or not, if he had known people, be friends with them. But, perhaps, he wondered, the personalities he had given to his objects came from there. It was no use wondering when he would never have the answers to his questions.

He set off again, having a conversation with Mycroft. It was bizarre to talk with him when he had only realized a few days ago that he was talking to himself. But he kept doing it. He liked it, liked the idea that he was smart enough and a good enough actor to make it seem real. If children asked him to read them a story, they would be so entranced in it, his voice playing different characters as if they were watching a movie and different actors. _Movie_? he thought. He still didn’t know what it was. He wondered why such bizarre words came into his mind when he would never know where they came from.

‘You’re so _boring_. You’re stupid, I’m so ashamed to have ever wanted to be friends with you,’ the apple said and Sherlock cast his eyes down at it, wearing a frown.

‘That’s alright, I don’t want to be friends with you.’

The apple chuckled. ‘Oh Sherlock, lying is so tedious,’ Moriarty sing-sang.

He scowled. Anger was running in his veins like wild fire burning down a house. He felt like he was slowly losing his mind. He was angry at _himself_ through someone else. How could that be possible?

‘Never thought I’d say that, but madness isn’t something that attracts me. _Sher_ lock. Can you hear me?’ the apple dragged out the last syllable. ‘I know you can. Stop ignoring me, talk to me, come ooooon, it’ll be fun, I can make it fun, I make everything funnier than it is!’

Sherlock stopped focusing on what Moriarty said, instead a single word whirled in his mind ceaselessly, as if it was yelling, calling out to him. He didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, just the word ‘ _madness_ ’ and it rattled him to no end. He stopped his walk, once again, and took a deep breath as his eyelids closed, a single tear streaming down his cheek, and brought the poisoned apple to his mouth. He would not, at any point, continue living if it made him mad.

‘Are you crazy?’ he heard suddenly as he opened his mouth, and started, dropping the apple in his astonishment. It was not one of his voices, of that he was sure. He did not recognize it, and there were only so few that he had created that he knew them by heart of course.

He picked up the apple and turned it in his hand, noticing with wonder a hole in the side of the apple, next to the ‘I’ of the ‘I O U’.

‘Hello?’ he called out, reprimanding himself for his foolishness, although that thought quickly disappeared when he noticed a round head sticking out of the hole.

‘You shouldn’t do that, you know, the apple is, well, poisoned,’ the round face said.

‘I know it is,’ he snapped before remembering himself.

‘I, hm. What are you?’

‘I should think it was obvious,’ the voice said. His head started to move and he put himself on the apple, the rest of his body following. Sherlock felt a wave of wrath at the last word, without truly knowing why. ‘I’m a caterpillar. But shouldn’t you rather be asking _who_ I am?’

 

 

                                                 

 

‘You have a name?’ Sherlock asked, his voice full of awe. He could not believe that something, _someone_ was talking to him, much less that an animal had a name.

‘John. What is yours?’ John said, tilting his head as if to observe Sherlock more. The latter could not begin to comprehend the idea that an animal could talk and move as a human being would.

‘Sherlock Holmes.’

John’s small mouth widened in a smile. Sherlock answered with one of his own, although his pointy teeth made it look more like a wince. They observed one another for a short while, Sherlock trying to take everything in, every new concept, whereas John merely gazed at the coat’s multiple pockets.

‘What’s in your pockets?’

‘How long have you been there?’ they asked at the same time.

They both chuckled awkwardly. John answered first.

‘Oh well, about two months, I think. Wasn’t a pretty business though, mind you. Didn’t really have anywhere to go, and I stumbled upon you one day, and thought it’d as good a place as any. I wanted to go on the magnifying glass but you always used it so I went on the apple instead. Brrr, gives me shivers only thinking about it. Anyway, what about your pockets then?’

‘I - eh - well. I have everything and anything that I find along the way,’ Sherlock answered, although he was a bit put off by the long tirade. Was it always how you felt when someone else, a real someone, talked to you? he wondered.

‘But how do they fit? I mean, you only have so many pockets right!’ John asked excitedly, jumping on the apple with a wide grin on his strange face.

‘Oh. Well. I don’t really know how, but they’re never ending pockets. I can fit anything in it.’

‘Wow, that is _so_ _cool_!’ John cried out.

‘Is it?’ he frowned. What was so exciting about that? It was something he had always known.

Silence stretched between them. John bit his lips. Sherlock arched a brow.

‘What?’ ‘It’s just. Why would you eat the apple if you knew it was poisoned?’

‘Ah.’ He turned his head, glancing away from the caterpillar. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Alright,’ the animal answered, wearing a strained smile on his face. ‘Oh, we could go on an adventure!’

‘An adventure?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Yeah, you know,’ it took a deep voice, ’two friends fighting in the darkness to leave the grim city they live in, coming across dark creatures, dragons and demons,’ it continued with its normal voice, ‘that sort of things!’ ‘I

’m afraid that are no such things as dragons and demons here,’ Sherlock sighed and John laughed.

‘I _know_. I was just giving an example! Anyway, shall we go?’ He jumped from the apple to Sherlock’s shoulder.

There were a few seconds of silence, during which John stared at Sherlock patiently while the latter swallowed with difficulty. ‘I suppose so,’ he said and started to walk, one step at a time, still unsure of how to react. He’d been wishing so hard, so much, to have someone to talk to, someone to be with, not someone from his imagination but a real _living_ thing. And now there was John, a heavy weight on his shoulder, making it so real, not just a figment of his imagination. He could hardly believe it. Could he believe it? Was it safe? _He was already out of his mind, losing it more as time passed, hating himself_. What if it had been a ploy of his mind to stop him from killing himself? What if none of it was real. _None of it_. He once again wished he could stop the thoughts from dancing in his head. Wished he had a distraction, drugs, or a hobby that he could use to appease the swirls of his pansies.

‘Who’s he?’ Someone asked with resentment, the words muffled by the pocket it was in.

Sherlock coughed and said the name of his new friend and coughed again.

‘Yes?’ John said, confused.

‘Nothing.’

‘He’s going to make you forget your goal, brother mine,’ Mycroft said with disapproval.

‘Of course not,’ Sherlock breathed through gritted teeth.

‘I don’t trust him,’ the magnifying glass added. He sounded sorry, and Sherlock imagined that if it was a man, it would shrug.

‘I don’t care,’ he replied with hostility. ‘I don’t care what you bloody think, you’re just -‘

‘Sherlock?’ John called out. He stared at Sherlock, perplexed. ‘Who are you talking to?’

Sherlock growled but didn’t answer the caterpillar.

‘I like him, he seems nice,’ Molly said in an undertone.

‘I agree,’ Mrs H. added softly. ‘I like his manners, and his enthusiasm.’

‘He seems _dull_. He doesn’t have your brain, Sherlock, why would you want to hang out with him?’

Sherlock massaged his temples and ignored Moriarty. He hated that they could enter the intimacy of his thoughts, the privacy of his mind, and twist every single one of his thoughts into a fight against trust. Why shouldn’t he trust John? He had nothing to lose, _nothing_ , and everything to gain. He needed to try, he had to, who knew what would happen to him if he didn’t. John had saved him. Maybe he would again. Maybe, maybe, they were meant to be friends. Fate had brought them together on the path of the grim life he led. He was lonely, bored, depressed. For the moment, John had made him wonder, made him question, made him smile, really _smile_. Who knew when that had really happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to update every Sunday. Please, comment, tell us what you think, "kudos" etc :)


	3. It comes and goes

Chapter 3: It comes and goes.

 

Several weeks passed before John realized that Sherlock was not a very sane person. It seemed to Sherlock that it could be read upon his face at first glance, but perhaps John was not as observant as he had first thought. They did not breach the subject of the poisoned apple again, but even if they had, it would have been John inquiring and Sherlock ignoring. Nothing seemed to matter now that he had a friend. He found that word so bizarre in his mind. Saying it was out of the question, he didn’t want to give the opportunity to John to reject him.

‘Why are you pretending to drink tea?’ John asked one night, when they stopped after a eventless day.

Sherlock glanced down at his cup and noticed for the first time that, indeed, it was empty. He dismissed John’s question with a gesture.

‘I wish to test a theory based on the cup and the teapot that I have, whether or not it can contain any amount of liquid that I wish to put in. After all, I have found many objects over the years which were not capable of doing their original uses, ‘ he lied.

John nodded as if it was a perfectly logical explanation.

But the thought of it disturbed Sherlock’s already restless sleep and he dreamed of cups filled with weird textures, which he was forced to drink. He woke up breathless, sitting up right away, the reminder of the dream already fading from his mind. He hadn’t woken John up, he realized as he drifted his gaze to the small body of his friend.

As soon as John opened his wide softened eyes, they got back on the road at a fast pace. He no longer held the umbrella open over his head, instead he left it in his hand, dragging it along on his walk. John supplied the conversation with questions and Sherlock did his best to answer as precisely as he could, with the best of his abilities. Sometimes, answers came out of his mouth without his comprehension, words like books and cars, words that he didn’t even know existed. But John complimented him on his mind, on his knowledge. Everything John said, even only his name, warmed his entire being. He had never felt like he deserved to love himself, but now, step by step, word by word, he did. John had no idea of the impact he had on Sherlock’s life. And perhaps, it was better that way. Who knew what he would do if he knew how much Sherlock liked him. He would hate him. Maybe even leave. And Sherlock did not think he could bear it. He had only known John for a few days but already their friendship was strong.

‘Where do you come from?’

‘I woke up on the East side of Agra. Didn’t know much except my name.’

‘How old are you?’

‘If you ask from the moment I woke up, then four years. If you ask my real age, then I am afraid I do not know. I only suspect that I was born before I even woke up here.’

‘Why does your mouth do that thing?’

‘What thing?’

‘The thing with, with the smile?’

‘It’s a smile. I’m smiling.’

‘Do you know if there are any other planets?’

‘Ah, that is a good question indeed. I believe there are other planets, but I do not know for sure. Of course, theorizing without having data is useless and so whatever I believe might be wrong. It is already wrong of me to have a belief based on only my thoughts and vision. That is, the fact that I have watched the sky and the stars more often than I can count hardly matter in the question of whether or not there are any planets around this one.’

‘How come there’s no one else? Other than us, I mean.’

‘ _Us_. Hm. Well, I don’t know. I don’t have any data to expose any theory that should be relevant to the matter.’

‘Why are there no forms at all, to anything?’

‘Ah, that is the way the planet is I’m afraid. There are a few trees here and there, but they are very few and disappearing.’

It was during one of these questions-time that they stumbled upon a field of corpses. Sherlock had rarely seen such a hateful sight. He despised the fact that the only bodies he met were the ones that belonged to Death. They were lying a few feet from each other, all on their backs, eyes staring blankly at the clouded sky, an apple resting in the palms of their stunted hands. Each apple had been bitten, Sherlock could see that from where he stood, John perched on his shoulder as if he were an angel or a demon guiding him and giving him advice. In a way, it could be said that he was either, since his conversation told a lot to Sherlock, but if he had to choose, he would describe him as an angel. John's voice was almost always soft when talking to Sherlock, except when he did not approve of what Sherlock said, but that happened so rarely Sherlock preferred to erase those moments from his mind.

'I've never seen so many dead people at the same time,' John breathed in Sherlock's ear. He didn't answer. He didn't think it was necessary, that anything had to be said.

'Why are they all dead?' John asked then.

'Bodies appear from time to time, always in the same way: lying on their backs, the probable cause of death being the poisoned apple at their sides. There is no explanation. They're never there when I come back.'

'Haven't you given them a funeral?' John asked quietly, as if the dead would be bothered by his question.

'What would be the purpose?' Sherlock scoffed. 'They're dead anyway. And there's no one to visit them.' What he didn't say was that he had tried the first time, his heart hurting from the sight of someone who could have been a companion, when he still had hope that he would meet someone and become friends with them.

John clearly disapproved, as his angry sigh revealed to Sherlock. Sherlock never liked it when he angered John, but there were times when it could not be helped. Sherlock would not change because who he was displeased someone. He thought if there were numerous other people, it would be the same.

They had stopped to observe the sight that befell in front of them, so Sherlock resumed his walk, his shoulders hunched under the weight of the burdens that he carried unwillingly.

Silence fell upon them like a hurricane. John was pouting while Sherlock did not want to give him the satisfaction of apologizing. Never had the quietness been so tense. It wrecked his mind but he persisted, taking wide steps to walk quicker. His long legs carried him to his destination faster than he thought it would take.

He sat on the wet grass at once, not caring if the sky was not yet dark. His back rested against one of the only trees of the planet. John trailed down his arm and walked away from him. They did not talk. Night fell without them realizing it, both fast asleep a few feet from each other, paralleling the positions of the corpses they had come across earlier. John fell asleep feeling angry at his companion. Sherlock's mind came to a stop after obstinately refusing to apologize.

On the morning, John was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not having posted last week, I had too many homework. I'm not sure when I'll be able to post the next chapter. As for the image of this chapter, it'll be posted later too.


	4. Chapter 4 - Messy Mind

He didn't panic. He did _not_ panic. He did not go around looking desperately for his little friend. He did not called out his name with a certain edge to his voice. He did not break down crying, falling to his knees on the dirty ground, messing with his only trousers. He did not stay there for hours waiting for his friend to come back. And there was no one to say otherwise. There was no witness. And there will be no trial.

After a day had passed, he stood up and left, didn't look back. He walked for hours, traveled the whole planet, observing every corner of it to be sure not to miss him. But he never saw him, not even a glimpse of his frail body. Sherlock assumed John was gone for good, leaving him there after having realized how horrible Sherlock truly was. Or maybe, he thought with a pang in his chest, John was just a figment of his imagination, same as the others. He had to concentrate hard to breathe. If he could have, he would have cried. But tears did not exist, the same way humans did not.

Because if Sherlock was one thing, it was not a human being. He had thought he was, previously. Had believed it with his whole heart, his logical thinking. Had wished it to be true. But his behavior towards John, precious, nice John, indicated to the contrary. He felt shame and regret, then hated himself for feeling at all.

"Caring… is not an advantage, brother dear," Mycroft said as he laid by his side. His voice was hard, yet resigned, as if he hadn't expected much more from Sherlock. It hurt. It hurt that one of the oldest person he knew thought of him that way. As a disappointing, freakish person.

"He was just a pet, you should be able to forget him in a flash! Sherlock, Johnny was just a pet, a small pet, not even brave that one! Ha! If only you'd listened to me from the start, maybe nothing bad would have happened to him!"

"Shut up," Sherlock muttered to Moriarty.

"I hate to say it, Sherlock, but he is right. You're the reason he's gone," Lestrade whispered and Sherlock hated that he could hear his voice from far away.

"You should have just offered him a cup of tea, dear, I'm sure it would have arranged things. Tea arranges everything," Mrs H. said next and Moriarty snorted. Sherlock tried his hardest to ignore them all.

"Tea does not arrange everything, you fool. If it did, Sherlock would not be here to-day," Moriarty sing-sang the last word with a smirk.

"I said shut up!"

"You shouldn't speak that way, dear, it's a bit rude," Mrs H. told him, disapproval in her tone.

"Mummy did not raise you that way," Mycroft added. Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"Well, the dead can't complain. Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean — I meant —"

"It's fine, Molly, we know you mean well," Lestrade interrupted and Molly sighed in relief.

"Ugh, how do you do to stand these people Sherlock? They're so boring and mundane!"

"Hey! We are not," Lestrade retorted at the same time Mycroft said, "Goldfish, is what they are."

"Shut up. Shut up, SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP," Sherlock yelled and they miraculously did. After three minutes of silence, Sherlock almost missed their chatter and arguments. Almost.

Later that week, Sherlock broke down far from his abandoned coat on the side of a used road. He fell to his knees and whispered to himself in agony.

"John, John, John, please, come back, please, I'm sorry, John, John, I am nothing without you, I can't be without you, it's dull here and you bring me light, you bring me life, you are my true friend, come back please."

No sooner had he spoken than a thing in the sky attracted his gaze. He looked up, his eyes filled with barely present tears, and saw a beautiful, sand-colored butterfly. It flew up towards him, Sherlock whispered the name of his friend in hope, but as the butterfly's wings touched his nose, the world turned and colors came back. He saw blurry faces and happy smiles, light skin and mouths turned down and then he fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! It's been a while since I've posted a chapter of AIC, apologies... this one was written a while ago and I was waiting for Wealling to do the drawing but she's not really inspired, so I finally decided to post the chapter!  
> The last chapter, the fifth, will be posted in a while probably, I haven't written it at all yet, although it will be written so don't worry about that!  
> Hope you liked this short chapter! Sorry about the cliffhanger *iamevil*


End file.
